


just like honey

by blanchtt



Series: listen to the girl as she takes on half the world [1]
Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-24 11:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15630090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchtt/pseuds/blanchtt
Summary: Constance is twenty-three minutes late to their next practice. She and Nine Ball are all set up and ready to go, warmed up, when Constance throws the front door of her loft open with a clatter, walks in with the biggest shit-eating grin Lou’s seen on her to date and raises an arm like a goddamn magician introducing an assistant as a woman walks in after her, sleek black guitar case in hand.





	just like honey

**Author's Note:**

> Used to be krystalgoderitch, sorry! Should be the last name change on here/tumblr for a while.

 

 

 

 

They’re dead in the water unless they can find a new frontwoman because there is no way, Lou informs them all after they’ve started packing up after a very terrible rehearsal, that she is singing lead. She is _strictly_ back-up because she doesn’t have the range, and is only decent on the guitar.

 

(She holds no ill will towards Tammy for leaving. Tammy’s good, but she’s always been torn, a foot in both worlds, and there’s not much precedence for having a husband, a baby, and a home in the suburbs in their line of work.)

 

“We gotta get a new guitarist,” Nine Ball says, always the rock of good sense. She grinds out the joint she’s been smoking, stashes it, and sighs. “We can’t just give up. We got that gig on the eighteenth. So we gotta make flyers or post on Craigslist or something tonight, unless y’all know anyone who sings _and_ plays guitar for free.”

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Constance is twenty-three minutes late to their next practice.

 

She and Nine Ball are all set up and ready to go, warmed up, when Constance throws the front door of her loft open with a clatter, walks in with the biggest shit-eating grin Lou’s seen on her to date and raises an arm like a goddamn magician introducing an assistant as a woman walks in after her, sleek black guitar case in hand.

 

“Ladies, may I introduce you to Debbie,” Constance announces. “Also, sorry about the time, yo!” she explains, shrugging as she walks over to her keyboard, left out in Lou’s living room from the last practice. “Train was late. Totally out of my hands.”

 

Debbie, whoever she is, is dressed up like she’s just driven down from Central Park West, wearing fancy slacks and a sheer blouse under a grey coat that looks like it costs two months’ of Lou’s rent, and not to doubt Constance but it concerns the shit out of Lou because Debbie is either lost as _fuck_ or she knows exactly what she’s doing.

 

Lou heaves herself up off the amp she’s sitting on, slings her white gloss bass over her shoulder so the strap’s around front and the instrument’s resting against her back, and walks over.

 

“Lou Miller,” she says, sticking out her hand, and she’s surprised by the firmness of the other woman’s handshake as Debbie returns the gesture, the confident smile that reaches her dark brown eyes, and suddenly Lou’s willing to bet all the cash she’s got stashed away on Debbie knowing exactly what she’s doing.

 

“Debbie Ocean.”

 

“Enough chitchat,” Nine Ball hollers to them all in general, because it’s her style and because, Lou knows, if Debbie doesn’t work out then they still have to find someone before the eighteenth. “Let’s give this shit a run!”

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Debbie shows up again to their next practice, and that must mean Nine Ball likes her style.

 

(They’re a democracy, but Constance is hit and miss but mostly miss with follow up and Lou is just fine with someone else running point, and so by default Nine Ball takes the reigns.)

 

Constance, for once, is early and ignores her keyboard, flips a pack of cards between her hands with surprising speed, teaching herself some sort of trick and looking one slip away from fifty-two pick-up. Lou tunes her bass, tweaks at the tuning keys and allows herself only two subtle glances sideways, watches Debbie set up, crouched in front of her case in the most uncomfortable-looking set of heels she’s ever seen.

 

When Debbie stands and finds her amp, guitar slung around her shoulder, Lou can see she’s got a beautiful, Cabernet-red Telecaster with a pearlescent tortoiseshell pickguard, one that Lou can eyeball and know outprices all of their instruments combined, and then some.

 

When Nine Ball shows up and they finally get their shit together and Debbie plays, _really plays_ , it confirms it. The sound is rich, deep, and resonant, far from the flat and tinny sounds of a cheap beginner’s instrument, and it’s almost enough to make Lou wet on the spot.

 

They finish catching Debbie up to speed on all their songs, pack up after a couple of hours, even Lou’s callused and practiced fingertips starting to go numb from pressing against steel strings, and order in.

 

“She tried to sell me a busted amp,” Constance replies, when the conversation inevitably heads towards how in the world Constance knows Debbie, and Nine Ball snorts, though it sounds approving. “Then we got started talking, and I found out that Debbie here plays guitar and can be convinced to sing.”

 

“Hey,” Debbie says, sounding aggrieved as she points at Constance with her chopsticks. “It’s not ‘busted.’ It’s second-hand, and it sounds just fine.”

 

“It’s got major water damage, so same difference,” Constance slings back good-naturedly, and they all can’t help but laugh, Debbie included once she’s made a show of rolling her eyes.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Debbie ends up being a godsend.

 

(Lou buys Constance not one but three drinks, because she has saved all their asses but also Lou’s specifically. Going from four strings to six and singing well enough to please a crowd of people while working a shitty day job has not been easy to do in less than two weeks).

 

They rock the gig on the eighteenth, shock everyone with a new lead and a new direction because underneath Debbie’s polished exterior is a goddam firecracker with a magical amp, and their sound gets louder, harder, more alive, Debbie rocking her body just enough to the beat as she plays. She can sing too, Lou backing her up and mellowing out Debbie’s higher reach.

 

Constance, iPhone always within reach, is the first to notice the positive uptick in their reviews. It starts small and slow—a comment on someone’s photo on Instagram they’ve been tagged in, a zine writing a couple lines about them. Until now they’ve been rocking a series of low-level venues, like _low_ low, just-out-of-the-garage level low, so it’s commensurate with their exposure, if not their expectations.

 

At their next rehearsal, setting up and all still riding the tail end of the high, Debbie walks in, guitar case over her shoulder and a look that can only be described as smug on her face.

 

“I pulled some strings,” Debbie says, setting her case down and leaning heavily against it. “We’re playing Chicago.”

 

“Fuck off,” Nine Ball says, astounded, and Constance’s eyes go wide.

 

“Seriously?”

 

“The Hideout,” Debbie replies, and Lou can’t help but raise a brow in approval. Small, indie, but well-known within the right crowd. “This is our chance, ladies.”

 

Constance woops loudly, jumps forward and holds out her hand for a group hand-stack, and Lou joins in with a roll of her eyes, feels all of them stick their hand in the middle and lets out a laugh as Constance counts down from three and yells something about girl power before they all disperse.

 

“Nice job, Ocean,” Lou drawls as Debbie takes her place next to her, guitar in hand, and the satisfied smile Debbie shoots her stays there all through practice.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Practice is practice, and lacks the real pressure of performing, of people watching and rocking and filming and judging and reviewing.

 

(Their practice sessions have up until now has been plastered all over Constance’s social media, their de facto PR woman—namely various candids of them over the past week practicing, a few selfies, and unrelated pictures of Constance’s foodie meals.)

 

It’s only when they’re on stage that Lou realizes Debbie can get the audience to do _anything_.

 

In retrospect, it shouldn’t be surprising.

 

Their next gig is home in NYC, someplace small and grungy, and Lou watches Debbie shred, watches how at the end of a song she flips back that mane of hair, curlier now than it was when they started, watches Debbie smile at the crowd, reel them in, flirting with every sway of her hip and tilt of her head, all in a short black dress and four inch heels without missing a beat.

 

They eat it up, and Lou can’t blame them.

 

With Tammy, it was simpler. She went up, Tammy sang and played, and Lou did her own thing, concurrent—kept the beat, packed up after, stayed in her own head and made an appearance. Played to play. Went home.

 

With Debbie, it’s different. Was from day one, if Lou wants to even _start_ to go there and explore the reasons why. But it’s neither the time nor the place.

 

Lou steps onto the stage, smiles at Debbie and Debbie smiles back at her before wrinkling her nose and sticking her tongue out in jest, and looking back down at her guitar before addressing the crowd.

 

She’s fucked, Lou knows as a giddiness washes over her. One hundred percent. But she’s not afraid to get burned. Never has been. She throws herself headlong into it, lets that thing building up between them feed her and the music. Debbie plays and Lou plays _with_ her, looks up amidst the bright lights and the sound so loud it’s almost a wall, catches Debbie glancing at her, slows down or speeds up as she follows, plays off her, hears distantly Constance and Nine Ball adjusting, cohesive.

 

Debbie has a _presence_ , undeniable, and it certainly doesn’t hurt their ticket sales.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

If pressed, if someone were to corner her and ask Lou to put her finger on the moment she realizes she’s fallen truly, irrevocably head over heels for Deborah Ocean, it might be in practice one day when she and Constance are discussing their favorite nineties rock songs. They've got their heads together, trying to decide whether they can convince Nine Ball to spend an evening chilling and playing something that’s not theirs even though Nine Ball _hates_ covers with a passion, when Debbie shifts her guitar, falls silent, and lets her hands do the talking. 

 

It takes all of four seconds for Lou to recognize the tune, each note of Under The Bridge lingering full and unrushed, yet perfectly in time, slow and easy and effortless. They turn to look at her, Debbie too busy to look up, left hand drifting confidently up and down the fretboard of the guitar, nodding slightly to keep the beat she plays before she opens her mouth and starts to sing.

 

Lou's hardly aware of time passing, the song washing over her, of Debbie reaching the end of the song until the moment is ruined, just a little, when Constance joins in toward the end, whips out her falsetto and chants the _under the bridge downtown_ chorus and jerks Lou out of her reverie, and even Debbie breaks character, screws up the notes and starts laughing too hard to finish.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

They play another little show in Philly and cart their shit back to new York, wait for the reviews to roll in and bigger places to call them. Or at least, Constance does, reading them all of the better reviews, while Nine Ball and Debbie get to work trying to fit them in somewhere else and Lou supplies the loft and the liquor after practice.

 

After an easy get together and dinner, Nine Ball, master of the Irish goodbye, simple vanishes at some point that Lou’s failed to notice, and from the lack of movement from the living room couch it would seem that Constance has passed out on it. It leaves just her and Debbie alone for the first time since she’s walked into her loft and their lives almost two busy months ago.

 

Debbie takes another shot, pace measured throughout the night, and grimaces when she places the shot glass down. Lou tilts her bottle of Jack up in response, takes a pull at it and puts it back down on the table with the soft clink of glass on marble.

 

It’s nice, the silence and the stillness, which is something she’d never thought she’d say. The more noise, the better, generally.

 

Lou breaks it eventually though, curious, and asks, “Where’d you learn to play?”

 

“With my brother,” Debbie says, and with her everything is always a surprise. “He had a band when we were kids,” Debbie explains, and waves a hand through the air, smiling. “Shitty one, nothing like this, but he did teach me guitar well enough to play venues here and there if I felt like it.” She pauses for a moment, takes a glance over at Constance before meeting Lou’s eyes. “How’d you lose your frontwoman?”

 

Lou lets the topic shift, sits back in her seat and thinks. “Ah, Tammy? She’s gonna have a kid. Constance shows me the Instagram pics all the time,” Lou adds with a chuckle. “She’s getting big.”

 

Debbie murmurs something that sounds like _cute_ , and then looks around, lets out a breath. From the couch comes the soft, snuffling sounds of Constance snoring, and Debbie cracks a half-smile, meets Lou’s eyes.

 

“I should probably get going,” Debbie says softly. It is neither of their first drinks of the night, and Lou doesn’t know exactly what Debbie does during the day, but it’s something like one in the morning and that’s enough to make anyone late for anything.

 

Debbie gets up, pushes her chair back in and takes her plate to the trashcan, cleans up her shit as Lou stands and takes one last swig, follows her to the door.

 

 “You need a ride?” Lou asks, opens the loft door as Debbie gets her coat and slips it on. It’s not cold but it is dark, and Debbie’s in her goddamn heels again. Lou doesn’t know how she does it, especially since as far as she knows—all of them true New Yorkers—none of them owns a car.

 

“Nah. I’ll manage, thanks,” Debbie says, giving her a grateful smile, and then the speed of it almost means Lou misses it. Debbie leans in and up, a hand on Lou’s shoulder and probably on her tiptoes, and there’s a wave of perfume, a curtain of hair around them, and Debbie kissing her, sweet and soft and quick, the sting of vodka still on her lips before she turns and heads out the door. “See you Thursday.”

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Their next show ends up being less than two weeks later, in Boston, and it’s the first time she screws up on stage in years. It’s minuscule, really, a crack in the façade she puts up rather than anything technical. But still.

 

They’re rocking out, the last song on the set list, and Deb’s gravitating toward her, left hand flying over the fretboard and right hand strong and precise, voice just a touch raw from the work they’ve put in tonight, and Lou works with that energy, edges toward her, too, step by step, and they’re killing this song, absolutely _killing_ it.

 

They finish strong, the note lingering over the sound system, and Debbie looks up, smiles at her before biting her lip, and for a heartbeat everything else washes away—the crowd in front of them, the flicker of lights and cameras, the bass in her hand, the weight of it and the strap marking a furrow into her shoulder, Constance and Nine Ball behind them.

 

It’s only when Debbie turns and breaks the moment, thanks the crowd for coming out, that Lou feels as if her body’s been kicked back into overdrive.

 

Lou tears her gaze away, slaps on a smirk, turns to the crowd and gives them the nod before heading back across the stage to Nine Ball behind her drum set, a quick word confirming they’re going to walk off stage and, yeah, probably come back with a little flair for an encore.

 

Two can play at that game, Lou decides good-naturedly, and when they all make their way back onstage for the encore Lou picks up her bass, makes a show of flexing her biceps in her sleeveless vest as she does so because her jacket is somewhere backstage and ladies  _love_  a good set of arms. 

 

And Debbie, it would appear from the way Lou notices her trying not to stare, is no exception.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

They pack up their shit and head out for their next lead which is a decent venue in Houston and then San Antonio, two shows back to back this time courtesy of Nine Ball.

 

It’s far but they’re not big enough to be picky, and so they drive in the van because they have things to carry and Constance has practically never been out of New York City and Nine Ball considers it a part of her edification to show her a large part of the continental US, condensed into three days’ worth of road tripping.

 

After ten hours of driving none of them can take it anymore despite rotating through driving duty, and they pick a motel, lock up the van, and crash in a single room.

 

Lou takes the bathroom first, runs a hand through her hair and musses it artfully, touches up her makeup before walking back into the room. Nine Ball’s taken the bed, having driven a majority of the time, and is dead asleep—Constance, too, is already passed out on the couch, curled up because even she’s not small enough to make that work comfortably.

 

The only one up is Debbie, rummaging through her suitcase, and Lou turns, opens the minibar, thinks better of it, and grabs her wallet.

 

“You take it,” she says, motioning at the bed with her free hand, and Debbie nods her thanks.

 

It’s around two in the morning when she gets back, and Lou tries to be as quiet as someone pretty decently buzzed can be, opens the door with a minimal jingling of the motel key and doesn’t let it slam shut. She steps in, draws the chain lock after a couple of tries, and finds the room dark save for the light on Debbie’s side of the bed. The other woman’s sitting up, back against the headrest and knees drawn up toward her chest, scrawling away at something.

 

God put her on this earth for a reason, Lou knows, and that is to do two things: make music, and appreciate women. And it’s unfair, Lou decides, for a woman to be so talented _and_ so beautiful, even in an old cotton t-shirt and chewing on the end of her pen, because how can she fully, adequality appreciate Debbie Ocean?

 

Lou makes her way around backpacks and duffel bags on the floor, manages not to trip over anything and sits down on the floor next to the bed, sees Debbie lost in thought jerk at the sight, and strips off her jacket.

 

“Toss me a pillow, would you?” Lou asks, toeing off her boots, and Debbie reaches around herself, pulls one out that neither she nor Nine Ball are using and tosses it underhand to her.

 

“That doesn’t look comfortable at all,” Debbie says flatly as Lou catches it, puts the pillow on the floor, draws her jacket around herself like a blanket, and lies down.

 

“It’s comfortable enough,” Lou replies, closing her eyes. “What’ve you got there?”

 

“Lyrics,” Debbie says in a tone that Lou’s never heard before, and, _oh boy_ , it’s followed by what _sounds_ like a frown and the _thwap_ of a pad of paper being slapped down and—“Lou, get up. You’re not going to sleep on the floor. We’re not twenty-two anymore.”

 

She’s never been one to argue with a well-researched fact. The last time she tried this, her hip hurt the entire rest of the day. And so Lou gets up, slips into the bed and under the covers as Debbie makes space, reaches back to turn off the light before settling down.

 

She’s not tacky enough to do anything with two of her friends slash bandmates in the same room, let alone with one of them in the same bed, too.

 

And it is _hard_ not to, because in the dark Debbie’s hands find her waist, drawing her closer from the edge of the bed, and, alright, they’re doing this. Lou grins broadly, Debbie’s head resting against her shoulder, the top of her head just under Lou’s chin, and a hand moving up to rest on her chest.

 

“Thanks,” Lou says, lets her arm around Debbie draw her in a little closer, and she feels Debbie nod against her, whisper a goodnight.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Their first night in Houston turns out to be their best show yet, which is saying something since they’ve all been golden since Debbie joined.

 

It’s two in the morning and everything is still humming—her blood, her ears, her skin. They played three songs as an encore and still walked off with the crowd wanting more, finally packed up their shit, and lingered long enough to escape any crowds, hopefully. (Backstage, there are only two people left that Lou doesn’t know—Nine Ball’s got her arm confidently around some beautiful, dark-haired woman’s waist, and Constance grins, hangs off a tall, skinny hipster that Lou just _knows_ is going to wake up missing his wallet tomorrow, among other things.)

 

But all of it, unsurprisingly, pales to sitting in the Uber with Debbie.

 

The ride back to the motel is uneventful and silent, pop playing softly on the radio, the driver quiet.

 

In the dark, Lou gambles, holds out her hand, and Debbie takes it, places her own in Lou’s and threads their fingers together. They’ll get shit tomorrow for sure for passing up drinks with Constance and Nine, but it’s the last thing on her mind.

 

They fall into bed when they reach the motel, Lou holding herself up on her hands and knees in the half-light to keep her weight off Debbie, eyes meeting.

 

They’ve danced this dance because it’s fun and simple and it feels _good_ , and it doesn’t sound half-bad on stage, either. But this is different, Lou’s thigh between Debbie’s own, private and personal and meaning something _else_.

 

Lou’s breath is loud in her own ears as Debbie looks up at her through her lashes, a satisfied look on her face, and Lou only breathes out again when Debbie’s arms come up around her neck, pull her down, clear, settles into an easy rhythm of rocking between Debbie’s thighs as Debbie murmurs her name breathlessly.

 

At some point she loses her jacket and vest, and Debbie’s little black dress and panties are long gone, and Lou breaks their kiss, Debbie’s hands leaving her breasts with some reluctance as Lou makes her way with little nips and licks down Debbie’s body, until Lou slips an arm under her thigh, mirrors the motion with the other and dips her head between slick thighs.

 

Debbie’s cunt tastes like heaven.

 

Lou can’t help but groan, closes her eyes and savors the taste of her, Debbie practically dripping, licks long and messy, Debbie’s moans and the fingers that cards through her hair urging her on.

 

She eats her out like Debbie’s a god damn feast, because despite Debbie’s polished exterior there’s a whole other side to her, Lou finds, that’s not afraid to sing her heart out on stage or nudge Lou’s head exactly where she needs it to be.

 

Lou chuckles, takes the hint because god is there nothing she loves more than a woman who knows what she wants, and goes from running the tip of her tongue teasingly over her labia and nudges her way up instead, wraps lips around Debbie’s clit and sucks, moves a hand from Debbie’s thigh, slips it over her hip and to her stomach, splayed, holds her still because Debbie _moves_.

 

Debbie also hisses, “ _Inside_ ,” edge of a plea to her voice, and Lou happily complies, breaks her rhythm and pulls back just enough to drag her index and middle finger up through Debbie’s wetness, coating them and stroking back down softly before sinking into velvety heat.

 

Lou hardly bothers to pull her face away, crooks her fingers and murmurs low against Debbie between licks, “Come for me, baby,” and Debbie tilts her head back, breath hitching tell-tale, body arching like a bow, and Lou holds on tight, keeps on licking as Debbie comes with a series of pretty little keening gasps that are music to her ears.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Nine Ball has the tact no to say anything the next day, though during morning rehearsal Constance grins, gives her a double thumbs up when everyone else’s back is turned.

 

They’ve got a job to do and so other than the touch of her hand on the small of Debbie’s back as she walks by her, it’s a day like any other. Except, of course, that towards the end of rehearsal when her G string snaps, nearly flicking Lou in the chin, and the music stumbles to a halt once Constance, Nine Ball, and Debbie realize she’s suddenly stopped playing.

 

“Fuck,” Lou mutters, holding the frayed end in one hand. She reaches up, flicks the tuning key until she can get the little snapped part out of the peg. They break and take five, and Lou turns, digs through her case and in all the pockets for a spare string like any professional musician _should_ have on hand.

 

“Girl, seriously?” Nine Ball says after what feels like forever, and Lou feels her cheeks burn, tries not to laugh because it’s kind of serious but it’s also funny that it would happen now, of all days. At least it’s not right before the show.

 

“I know, I know,” Lou says apologetically, standing with her hands out in a gesture that says _I’m sorry_ and _please take pity on me_ , because Nine Ball is right.

 

“Alright,” Nine Ball says, waving her hand, and Lou salutes, turns and heads for the exit and pulls her phone out of her back pocket because there’s gotta be a music store around here somewhere as Nine Ball calls after her, “Y’all come back after lunch ready, though!”

 

She’s literally stepping off the sidewalk and into the Uber when Debbie shows up, slightly winded, and Lou holds open the door for her, slides over and lets Debbie in and the driver do her thing.

  

They find a Guitar Center, and it takes almost no time at all for Lou to pick up a G string, think better of it, and grab two extra pairs of each string, head to the counter and pay.

 

It’s only once she’s outside that Debbie reappears, holding up a packet of guitar strings between her index and middle finger.

 

“Can’t have too many back-ups,” Debbie says pointedly, and Lou nods, agrees.

 

“Are you always this prepared?” Lou asks, and feels her heart flutter as Debbie looks away, around them, before reaching into her pocket, pulls out four more packets of strings—bass, Lou can see—fanned out under a thumb like playing cards.

 

“Always,” Debbie says confidently.

 

Lou raises a brow in appreciation, takes the proffered strings and sticks them in the left back pocket of her jeans. She’s one hundred percent sure she didn’t see Debbie pay for them—but haven’t they all swiped something in their lives, once or twice? Or even a few more times.

 

“A woman after my own heart,” Lou drawls, and Debbie winks back, turns and walks away with a flick of her hair.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

The show starts off great, builds strong, and whatever Nine Ball’s been smoking between rehearsal earlier and the show now works for her, drumbeats on fleek—whatever the hell that means—and Constance jamming away at her keyboard. They’ve found that _something_ , finally, the indescribable thing that separates the amateurs from the pros, Lou thinks, and it’s pretty clear from the way they end their last song that scrabbling for venues is a thing of the past.

 

Lou flicks her bangs from her eyes, fails because they’re damp and stick to her forehead, and looks over to see how Debbie’s faring, and it seems like a surprise to no one except herself, Lou realizes, standing there with arms burning, chest heaving, sweaty and high on the music, when Debbie approaches her, when Debbie reaches out, tugs at the lapel of her blazer, brown eyes dark, and—

 

_oh, fuck, they’re doing this_

 

—Lou closes her eyes, feels Debbie’s lips on hers and then a tongue, seeking, and she returns the gesture, free hand rising and burying itself in Debbie’s long, dark hair, bass clashing with Debbie’s guitar and _happy_ and just almost able to ignore that the crowd goes from loud to truly deafening, the sound reverberating in her chest.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Debbie settles next to her on the couch, and Lou flicks her gaze away from the notebook. After a late, lazy morning of sex and food, as has become their schedule, Debbie’s traded one of Lou’s shirts for her own short-sleeved blouse and slacks post-shower, crisply ironed and ready to collaborate on work, and Lou can’t complain because that looks pretty damn hot, too.

 

“What do you think?” Debbie asks seriously, and Lou raises a brow in appreciation, holds out the notebook that Debbie takes and places absently on the couch somewhere behind herself.

 

“It’s good,” Lou says, and watches the compliment get a measured smile out of Debbie. “Don’t change a thing.”

 

“Good enough to make it onto the setlist?” Debbie asks pointedly, and Lou sucks in a breath, a finger tapping her chin, pretends to think hard and laughs once Debbie reaches out and swats her shoulder to move her decision along.

 

“Professionally, new songs are a group decision,” Lou says evenly, catching Debbie’s wrist loosely, and it doesn’t take much for Debbie to slide onto her lap, leaning against her. Lou lets go, and Debbie's arms settle around her shoulders. “Personally? Definitely. Nine Ball _loves_ original shit.”

 

Debbie makes a pleased noise, tilts her head and kisses her, softer and slower than earlier, and Lou relaxes into it, lets her hands slide down to Debbie’s ass and pulls her closer, thanks her lucky stars for the day Constance tried to buy a second-hand amp.

 

Debbie’s hand is down her shirt and her lips are on her neck, leaving little love bites, and she's way too absorbed in the way Debbie's rolling her nipple between her fingertips when the sound of the loft door banging open registers, along with that of Constance hollering, “ _Daaamn!_ ”

 

Constance is fast but Debbie is faster—Lou groans as Debbie extricates herself from the compromising position, braces herself with a hand on Lou’s shoulder and stands as Constance pops up just to their left.

 

“No, hold still, I wanna get a pic for the ‘gram! You know how many followers I got since last week?” Constance asks, undeterred and turning her phone on Lou as Debbie walks away quickly, out of frame. “ _Five_ thousand!”

 

“Could you knock first next time?” Lou asks, buttoning her shirt back up slowly and pointedly, and Constance snorts, snaps a pic once she’s halfway decent and pockets her phone before Lou can snatch it out of her hand, darts away.

 

“No,” Nine Ball answers, and Lou heaves herself off the couch as Nine Ball nods at her, smug as they start setting up. “Now get your ass over here and come practice with us.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
